


The Inevitable

by Malind



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Blood Drinking, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-19 17:58:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9453230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malind/pseuds/Malind
Summary: Trapped in a crypt with a dying man who doesn't remember much of anything, Vincent is forced to control his inhuman urges until the man is freed. Hopefully.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted 1/24/17.
> 
> A/N from a previous repost from sometime in 2015-2016:
> 
> This fic is oooold (written somewhere around 2001-2002) and one of the first Vincent x Sephiroth stories I've written. I spent hours trying to whip this thing into shape, adding about 700 words in the process. It was bad. I'm not sure why I bothered, but, eh, I'd been thinking of editing some of my old fics for a few days and this is where I started, knowing it would be bad even before I started. Not that it's fantastic now, but it's better. Furthermore, I do have another chapter written but, for now, it remains locked away until I can edit it.
> 
> There is rape in this thing. Reading back on it, I'm surprised how raw I made it (the actual 'sex' is cut though, since I probably didn't feel it was necessary to write it). Not sure what I was thinking since it makes me cringe now, but I kept it the same in that department.
> 
> This story was written before AC, DoC, CC, BC, etc, etc. This is old school FFVII storyline fiddling.
> 
> Please note: this has Hojo/Vincent Valentine content.

Almost against his will, his mind twisted free from the abyss of unconsciousness and latched onto his sluggish breaths which hardly expanded his torso.  The breaths weren't right.  He knew that, without knowing anything else.   Panicking, struggling to breathe in past the swollen lump of his tongue, the man tasted the stale air surrounding his body, dust wrapped in the smell of old wood.  Each new breath threatened to send him into a coughing fit as his lungs expanded further, an organ seemingly unused and forgotten.

As his breaths grew steadier, obscure thoughts floated around his muddled mind, making no sense to him. The thoughts revealed people and places he felt like he recognized but couldn't put names to.  The man shuffled through them, trying to remember something, anything concrete. 

When he was about to give in and be lost in them forever, never knowing the truth behind them, a single a vivid image took hold.  It was of a silver-haired, standing behind him, saying something to him.  That person had been him.

But that didn't make any sense.  How could he stand behind himself?  A mirror, perhaps?  Right?  He attempted a frown but the muscles in his face were stiff and hardly moved.  No, he had seen... someone.  He knew it because it'd been the last person he'd seen before a blast of pain and then consuming darkness.

Digging deeper into that single memory, he strained to remember anything else about it.  Books.  He'd been reading.  A library maybe?  A raven-haired man had been speaking to him.  No wait.  The man had had silver hair, right?

Utterly confused, the man groaned and promptly gave up trying to piece together his mind.  Instead, he focused his energy again on trying to figure out the situation he had found himself in. 

Using a meager amount of strength in his body, his eyes cracked open.  A faint green glow illuminated his surroundings but his eyes refused to focus.  The orbs began to throb from a lack of moisture.  He shut them tight as the pain bordered on agony but the stinging sensation lingered.  Okay, that had been a mistake and then some.

Saving his eyes for the time being, his parched throat working on a feeble growl, the man instead willed his hand to move to his eyes to rub some moisture back into them.  The limb ached as it strained.  Slowly, his forearm lifted off of the ground and then over his body.  At that height, his knuckles hit a hard, rough surface, a wall of some kind.  His brows furrowed, concern deepening his breaths.  Was trapped underneath something?  He edged his hand to the side, tracing the surface, and found another wall.  Panic painfully tensed unused muscles as he edged his other hand out and felt another wall.  He realized that he in some kind of box, a coffin maybe.

His harsh breath rang in his ears and threatened darkness. 

_I can't be in a coffin!  I'm not dead!_

Struggling more mentally than physically, his body hardly responded to his desperation.  His head throbbed, making him grind his teeth, making the pain worse.  Reaching the final leg of desperation, his mouth opened to cry out for help but the plea only came out as hoarse air.

_Oh God, please, someone..._

He choked on a dry sob while harsh shudders racked through his stiff body.  The quaking seemed to go on for an eternity.  By the end, he just wanted darkness again, but that didn't happen.

When he'd all but spend all of his energy, a voice in his head chided his weakness with, 'Get a grip.  This isn't helping.  Figure out what's going on and then deal with it.'

He wasn't completely sure where the thought had come from, when his every other thought had been confused and panicked, but took his mind's order to heart.  He took another shaky breath, and blew it out, forcing out the panic that plagued him.  Surprising him, it worked with an astonishing efficiency.

When he felt a bit under control again, he set his mind to finding a way out of his. . .  coffin.  The idea of being inside of a coffin chilled him more than he already was, drawing again ragged breaths, but he thrust the feeling away.  Panicking wasn't going to help him.

When his breathing came back under control, he fixated all of his concentration and strength on moving his arms again.  Relief flooded him when the limbs moved a bit more fluidly than before and didn't feel like they were going to fall off his body from overuse. 

The man pressed his palms into the roughened surface above him and pushed with every bit of strength in him.  A low creak echoed in the container.  He gritted his teeth and shoved hard, sending slivers of hot pain through his arms.  The cover gave way suddenly as if a seal had been broken.  Not willing to lose ground, he quickly shifted his arms and then slid the top half of the lid along the rim, cringing at the grinding sound against ears that were apparently too used to quiet.

Fresh, well, fresher air, swept into the box and he breathed it in deeply.  After his fill, he risked opening his eyes again a crack.  A white light flared, forcing them shut.  His breathing barely under control, after a few of second, he hesitantly squinted.  Eventually, his eyes adjusted, and he realized that the illumination wasn't bright at all, more like a dim emergency light.

At that point, the man was positive that he was lying in a coffin.  With the lid to the box nearly half off, he reached up and shoved it the rest of the way. The wood clattered onto the floor.  The echoing, jarring sound reminded him of stone or concrete.  He squinted and looked toward the ceiling which appeared to be covered in chunky stone.

A crypt?  The idea was absurd.  He wasn't dead!  ...Was he?

Letting go of a short, half-hysterical laugh that sent another spike of pain through his head, he decided he couldn't care less about lights or stones or crypts.  He just wanted out of the fucking box.

Determined to get out at any cost, totally ready to let his body fall apart from the effort, if need be, the man gripped onto the rims on either side of his body and pulled.  His body moved so little under the exertion; he felt like his body was bolted to the ground.  Joints cracked and muscles trembled as they strained but he refused to give up.  The man's face flushed as blood surged through his body.  His head felt like it was going to explode, as his breath held. 

Slowly, oh so slowly, seemingly an eternity later, the man managed to lift his torso up until he was seated upright.  Breathing shallowly, his head lolled as his mind bobbed in and out of unconsciousness.

_Please, don't feint...  God.  Please...  I just-I just want out!_

Anything is better than being inside of a coffin.  Death, even. 

He whimpered hoarsely before he slouched to the right and leaned over the side, further and further, until his body unceremoniously rolled out.  He landed hard on his head and shoulder and then his hip, the impacts jarring his bones and brain, a dry sob escaping at each one as excruciating pains stabbed and crippled any further movement.  Finally, he flattened on his backside, his backbones slammed onto the jagged stone floor.  Dizziness spun his head as the pain washed over him.  The sounds of pain from his throat wouldn't stop.

Irrationally aggravated with the weak sounds, the tears that couldn't come out, all of his weakness, he bit his bottom lip to end the sounds and tasted blood.

No longer protected by the buffer of the wood, the cold stone quickly chilled his skin through the thin cloth of his clothing.  He moved his arm and touched his chest, rubbing his fingers along soft fabric.

 _Wasn't I wearing...  armor.  And wasn't I..._   Then he frowned as a more important realization hit him:  _God, I don't even remember. . .  What's my name?_

Giving him no time to contemplate that new dilemma, a dark shape seemingly appeared from nowhere over his body.  Its head hovered a short distance above his own.  Unable to breathe, the man on the ground stared wide-eyed into inhuman, glowing, blood-red eyes that casted a haunting red aura over the creature's pale skin.  Warm breaths pulsated on his face, a heat that would have been welcome if it didn't threaten to stop his heart.

Long inky hair shrouded them and tickled his cheeks, as the creature lowered its head.  The man gasped when a warm tongue caressed his bottom lip, rubbing against the wound he had made with his teeth.  He sucked in his lip and jerked his head away.  The swift movement sent his head spinning.  Closing his eyes tightly, he fought off nausea that had no place in an empty stomach.

He wanted to run away, screaming at the top of his lungs, but it was like his body had been rendered useless.  Instead, his senses zoned in on the heavy breath of the being whom the man had already accepted might be Death coming to finally claim his soul.

Was that a good or bad thing?

 

~~~~~~

 

A thunderous clatter awoke him from his nightmares.  Vincent tried to understand the source of it, while remaining death-like still, while wishing whoever or whatever was out there would just go the hell away. 

It wasn't the first time someone had come into the crypt.  In fact, just days before, he'd awoken to a similar noise, quiet voices, and then orders from a man he didn't want to see.  And it probably wouldn't be the last, no matter how much he wished it otherwise.

Was it too much to ask to let him relive his regret-filled mistakes day after day without disturbance?  So that one day he could atone?  As if that day would ever come. 

It wasn't until he heard the sound of something clunking to the floor, gasping in obvious pain, that he debated confronting the person disturbing him.  As the noises of obvious distress wouldn't let him go back to sleep and might not for quite a while, curiosity got the better of him.  He shoved the lid up and off, catching it to rest it on the floor.   Sitting up as if he hadn't been laying down for decades, he the proceeded to watch an event unfold from the depths of a coffin a fair distance from his own.

Mesmerized by the determination displayed by the person, Vincent watched as a man clumsily forced himself into a seated position while fighting a desperate battle to hang onto consciousness.  After wobbling for nearly a minute, the man leaned over the side.  His equilibrium shifted, and he tumbled helplessly onto the uneven stone floor.  The thuds followed by anguished sobs forced a hint of sympathy from the ex-Turk.

A thin white shirt and loose pants, lab-rat clothing, accentuated the long, hard muscled body as Vincent looked him over.  Long silver hair was tangled around the limp body and sprawled out on the floor around him.  It was surprising the man hadn't strangled himself with it.

The lean form, its weakness and desperation, all of it aroused a longing in the ex-Turk's soul.  Unnerved by the sudden fire spreading through his body and centralizing at his groin, Vincent quickly suppressed the craving under the apathy that had kept him from killing himself over the decades spent alone.

Vincent smirked slightly.  _As if I deserve that kind of peace, even if I could have it._

Hojo had made sure that the task would be nearly impossible unless the ex-Turk cared to resort to extremely drastic measures.  Over the decades, Vincent hadn't found the guts, let alone the will to do it.  Odd that.

The man on the floor rotated ungracefully onto his back, bones colliding with the frigid stone floor.  Vincent noted then how the thin shirt had little value for warmth or even modesty as it was unbuttoned half way, revealing pale, almost translucent skin.  Vincent closed his eyes at the sight of bare flesh and managed to contain what he could only call bloodlust twisting his stomach into knots. 

This was something he knew, but couldn't help his utter confusion at it, since he knew it wasn't meant to be there.  Yet another curse for daring to stand in the scientist's way.  As if demons weren't enough.  Or perhaps the bloodlust was because of the demons.

He still vividly remembered the first time he had experienced the taste for blood.  The source of the liquid he had received still repulsed him. . .

 

~~~ Twenty-Five Years earlier ~~~

 

Overwhelming thirst ate at every cell in his body.  Vincent had never experienced a hunger like it.  His eyes were shut tight as he struggled against the tight straps that held him spread eagle on the metal table, vaguely warm where his bare skin had touched it for hours.  When soft skin was pressed against his lips, he tasted a substance so sweet that his body sang in harmony with the life of the liquid.

"Go ahead."

Vincent's eyes snapped open at the snarly sound of the scientist's voice.  Hojo stared down at him with interest, far too much interest that it bordered on desire.  The scientist held his wrist to Vincent's mouth.  The Turk couldn't understand what the scientist wanted him to do, didn't want to understand, but his body understood all too well.  Revulsion threating to make him glad, Vincent's tongue seemed to have a mind of its own as it snaked out and caressed the shallow cut on the man's wrist.  The metallic liquid impassioned him.  Shuttering, the resulting sensation resembled an orgasm far more pleasurable than he's ever experienced, whether with a man or a woman.  Lost in it, he paid no more heed to his revulsion and demanded more.

Until the wrist pulled away, anyway, teasing him.  He tried to follow it but he was strapped down far too tightly.  He blinked his confusion as his mind came back to him.

That was what his body wanted.  Blood.  Yes, it was the blood

The Turk was stunned, horrified.  He jerked his head away from the flesh and hissed, "Hojo, what have you done to me?"

Hojo's wrist followed the movement.  His voice was uncharacteristically urgent as he spoke, "It's all right.  Drink."

"No...  No... No..."  The Turk couldn't get past the single word.

"Vincent, drink.  It's all right. . .  Please," Hojo breathed and pressed his limb against Vincent's mouth.

The Turk's stomach cramped from different kinds of pain.  His body wanted to drink the life out of the scientist but the thought of touching the sadistic man, let alone drinking his blood, made him want to throw-up repeatedly to get any trace of him out of his body and then spend hours under a scalding shower.

Tell that to his body.  Without his mind's permission, his mouth attempted to clamp onto Hojo's wrist but his teeth couldn't find footing.

"Oh God, yes," Hojo moaned.  He pressed his wrist solidly against Vincent's mouth. 

The Turk immediately bit into the flesh and sucked aggressively, even as his mind screamed at him to stop.  The panting cascading out of Hojo's mouth sickened him but he couldn't stop.  He had no clue how long he had drunk but Hojo tried to pull away far too soon.  Vincent's teeth refused to let go of the torn flesh.  A strange sensation spread through his body.  He ignored the new sensation until it began to borderline on agony. 

"Vincent," the warning was clear in the man's voice. 

When Vincent still refused to grant freedom to the limb, Hojo pinched the Turk's nose so that he couldn't breathe.  Apparently, his body wanted to live more than it wanted blood.  Vincent wrenched himself away and sucked in trembling breaths.  He felt a prick in his arm and the pain in his body instantly began to recede.

His vision went in and out of focus.  Colors and objects he knew weren't really there danced before his eyes.  Vincent realized he had been drugged.  Again.  He was vaguely aware of Hojo's warm body positioning itself between his legs on the table.

"Please," Vincent whimpered but he knew it wouldn't matter.  It never did.

 

~~~~~~

 

The silver-haired man groaned weakly.  The ex-Turk snapped his eyes back open as he chided himself for this perverse, unwanted weakness, thanking God that Lucrecia was no longer alive to witness it.  This man needed help; His help since there was no one else around. 

Using pieces of morality he found deep inside of himself for strength, the ex-Turk walked out of his coffin and strode up to help the man.  As if he could help truly help in any way.

Nonetheless, despite his own doubts, he crouched beside the form, preparing to ask the person if he was all right, when all of his attention was drawn to a cut on the man's mouth.  The injury appeared to have been self-inflicted.  Vincent watched a pooling drop of silky blood form before his eyes.  The scent of it surged into his nose and overtook his senses.  The single drop forcefully called out to him in a way nothing else ever had.

Beyond Hojo's own morbid fascination and whims, surely this maddening hunger for blood was just another punishment, perhaps even a deserved one, with him forever hungering for what he couldn't, shouldn't have.  But in the end, who was the punishment really for?  Himself or his victims who dared to get near him? 

And the worst part about it was that even though he understood where the drive was coming from, Vincent couldn't control his body's craving.

With a thirst too commanding to ignore, he leaned over, rested his hands on the ground on either side of the man's shoulders, and brushed his tongue over the wound.  The metallic sweetness washed over his tongue and sent his mind reeling.  His body's response was just as, if not more so, orgasmic as it'd been with Hojo, as he moaned deep in his throat.  Wanting more of the fluid to appease the addictive thirst, Vincent sought to suck on the warm flesh but the man jerked his head away.  His stomach cramped, demanding more blood to control the appetite of his cursed body.

_Just a little more.  That's all I need. . .  God, what am I saying?  Hojo, you sick bastard, why did you do this to me?_

The ex-Turk thought it even as his body moved as if it had a will of its own.  His head traveled to the pale skin of the man's chest.   Crimson eyes fixated on an exposed hardened nipple.

_Please, just a taste.  Just a taste._

His tongue reached out and flicked at the nub, still able to control the bite.  Underneath him, the man hissed as his body stiffened.  The weak sound of protest only drove the ex-Turk on.  He sucked in the muscle surrounding the taut nipple as his tongue continued its movement. Hands yanked on his clothing, then settled on his shoulders and dug into his muscles while trying to push him away.  A pathetic effort.

As he fondled the sweet flesh, a weak groan from the man reached Vincent's ears and drained the last bit of his control.  No longer able to hold back, Vincent sank his teeth into the man's skin.  The ecstasy that followed corrupted his mind.  The liquid he sucked from the man's veins sent his pulse racing and made his body shudder from utter gratification.  Even the pathetic yanks on his hair made no difference to his hunger. He reached under the lean body and pulled the man against his chest.  After decades of suffering with a hunger that could only be satisfied with blood, the nameless man's sweet liquid made the wait worthwhile.

Chaos stirred, groaned inside the cage of the ex-Turk's body, sensing the debauchery of Vincent's inhuman hunger. Knowing what would follow if he kept going, instant terror numbed his bloodlust as his eyes snapped open.

Still feeling the itches of transformation, the danger he'd put the silver-haired man slapped him in the face. Releasing his teeth's hold on the man's flesh, he wrenched himself away, dropping the man to the floor.

The silver-haired man's fingers, tangled in Vincent's hair, yanked the ebony locks into knots as they tried to break free. The ex-Turk grabbed onto the man's quivering forearms and wrenched the hands free, growling as bits of hair were torn from his head.

He released the man's arms and, falling onto his backside, wrapped his own arms around his own body. Fearing the unleashing of hell, his teeth gritted so solidly that his jaw ached, biting down a scream as stabs of agony shot through his back. Focused on the burning ache centralizing between his shoulder blades, he knew that black leathery wings would sprout from his body at any moment.

"No! Please! Oh God, please stop," he begged of himself, of the creature inside of his body.

Vincent breathed harshly though his nose and focused on the rhythmic sound in an attempt to calm down his mind and in turn the demon attempting to take him over. Hyperventilating, he closed his eyes tight, bent over, and pressed his forehead against the man's chest. He choked on blood and saliva pooled in his mouth and then gagged, nearly vomiting the blood he had drank.

_Please, please, please. . ._

The word repeated over and over again in his head.

A low pulsating sound penetrated his mind.  The heart, pounding inside of the silver-haired man's chest, gave the grateful ex-Turk a focal point outside of his body, while he forcefully ignored what it meant.  Slowly, thankfully, a calm eased through his mind as he listened to the sound of the man's thunderous heartbeat. 

Vincent finally felt Chaos grudgingly returned to his slumber, the demon knowing his master and slave had won the battle.  The ex-Turk then noticed the hot points of pain spread along his right side.  The grip of his claw automatically loosened at the thought.  Vincent groaned as the sharp points on the tips of each finger slid out of his flesh.  He ignored the bleeding since he knew the wounds would heal all too quickly.

When his stomach had settled and the pain in his body had receded, Vincent's thoughts returned to the man below him. He forced himself to sit back up.  Opening his tear-filled eyes, he looked into glazed, horrified aquamarine eyes.  Vincent cursed himself.  He knew then, as if there had ever been any doubt, that he truly was a beast who deserved punishment for his sins.   

He could only beg forgiveness for his weakness from the man by whispering, "I'm sorry."

The silver-haired man barely frowned before his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing evened out, a slip into unconsciousness.

Without thinking, Vincent reached out with his normal hand and traced the slender jaw with an unsteady finger.  He glided his hand to the silver-haired man's cheeks and wiped away the slim wet lines trailing from the man's eyes.  The tears in his own eyes streamed down his face.  He whispered again, "I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry.  God, what have I done?"

With self-loathing scolding every breath he dared to take, Vincent bolted upright, put some distance between the silver-haired man and himself, and started to pace.  His red cape billowed about his body and tangled itself around his legs every time he twirled around.  He had to fight the urge to tear it from his body.

Intermittently, he looked down at the man on the floor and then tried vainly to burn holes in the walls with his eyes while he clenched and unclenched his hands.  Vincent struggled to understand his wretched actions.  Perhaps the experiments, torture, feedings, rapes, nightmares, isolation, and not to mention having a demon inside of his body had driven him mad.

Frowning, he thought out loud, his voice echoed in the chamber, "Just one more sin to add to the rest."  He smiled humorlessly as he added, "Perhaps Hojo knew what I'd deserved."

Gritting his teeth, fisting his hands, wanting to let the demon out to rage with him, Vincent turned his attention back to the silver-haired man and took a cautious step towards him.   Suddenly afraid that he might have killed the man, he paused to watch the man's torso and was slightly relieved when he noticed rhythmic but slow movement.

The ex-Turk then turned his attention to the man's face.  With the domineering hunger tucked away for the time being, temporarily satisfied by the blood he'd stolen, Vincent found himself dumbfounded by his face. 

Surrounded by long silver hair that was in desperate need of a washing and combing, the man's face reminded him of someone he didn't want to think about at that moment.  It was a curse to think of her, especially at this moment.  But he couldn't help picture her in his mind.  Lucrecia.  She was the woman he loved and one of the reasons he had retaliated against Hojo.  And their beauty was almost identical.

"Could this man be Sephiroth?" the ex-Turk whispered as his heart clenched.  Just the idea made him ill.  Suddenly weak, he crumpled to the floor, landing hard on his knees.  Slowly, he rocked back and forth, trying to suppress the chills and renewed nausea.

Why had the man been put here?  Days had passed since Hojo had first told him of his new sleeping companion, without telling him who the person was.  Actually, the scientist hadn't told him about him; Hojo had warned Vincent to stay away from him or face the consequences.

The ex-Turk couldn't have cared less about Hojo's warning.  But as long as he slept himself, he wouldn't need to feed.  He licked the wetness on his bottom lip and was reminded of the blood he drank from the man.  Vincent suddenly wished he had paid more heed to Hojo's warning for the man's sake.

Vincent reached out and swept a few small locks of stray hair off of the man's face.  Then he glided his hand down to the place he had fed from.  He noticed that the punctures were already almost completely healed.  Not even SOLDIERs healed that fast.

He tried to put together the facts he knew:  the slight glow he'd seen in the man's eyes.  The person had obviously been exposed to mako, and with his healing rate, possibly even Jenova cells, making him either definitely a SOLDIER or possibly Lucrecia's child. . .  Or even just another one of Hojo's experiments.

Vincent growled deep in his chest at the thought.  He wanted to rip the scientist's throat out with the metal claw Hojo had attached to his body, taking revenge for countless lives the man had played God with.  He knew he would even be completely willing to let Chaos control his body if it meant reducing Hojo into tiny bloody mangled pieces.  Vincent smiled at the picture in his mind.

Shaking his head, he forced the 'butcherer of lives' out of his mind, not quite willing yet to make good on his fantasy.  After all, he had the man he'd brutalized to worry about at the moment.  He turned his attention back to the man who slept on the stone floor.

Almost slapping himself on the forehead, Vincent suddenly remembered one way he could know for certain if the man was Sephiroth, besides asking the man directly when he awoke.  He shifted forward, took the man's hand in his own, and searched for a number.  He carefully twisted the hand, trying to be delicate.  The number one was tattooed on the skin behind the thumb.  Number one.  The first Jenova experiment, meaning this man was Lucrecia's child, Sephiroth.

Vincent couldn't stop the shake of his head, couldn't breathe for a moment, before he hissed out, "Why did you go along with what Hojo wanted?  Why couldn't I stop you?  Stop Hojo?  I should have stopped you both."  Vincent unconsciously rubbed his hand over the place Hojo had shot him.  "And now...  God.  What am I supposed to do?"

Vincent turned his attention back to the to the man whose pale skin nearly glowed under the dim light.  Dark circles laced under his eyes.   His lips were parched.  The man looked disturbingly near death, even with an ability to heal inhumanly fast. 

But in looking at him, the gunman realized, while accounts pointed to him Lucrecia's child, he had a chance to make an amend for his past.  The ex-Turk settled Sephiroth's hand on the swordsman's chest and then realized just how cold it was.

"Well, he is lying on a stone floor in a fucking basement," Vincent admonished himself.

They couldn't escape.  The walls were impenetrable.  The door was old, but solid.  At one point, in the beginning, he'd tried to free himself by slamming the wood with anything that could be found in the crypt, which wasn't much.  He'd destroyed a coffin in the process.  He saw no need to destroy the rest.  He'd failed back then, again.

No, he didn't want to waste time trying again, especially with Sephiroth's drugs wearing off, the man's body returning to normal.  He had to do something.  He had to get Sephiroth off the floor and warm. 

The crypt held only coffins, and Sephiroth had worked aggressively hard to get out of his own.  It seemed cruel to place him back inside but, he didn't have much choice.  And surely Hojo would be back soon.  Surely he hadn't placed Sephiroth in here to die after so much effort into his creation.  They just had to wait it out.

He wedged his arms underneath the limp form and easily stood up, cradling the extra weight.  The ex-Turk turned around to face his coffin.

 _You just drank blood from this man.  Do you really think he wants to be in a coffin with you_?  His mind laughed at him.

"Well, when he wakes up decides he wants to kill me, he's welcome to it," Vincent growled.  His mind kept laughing.

The ex-Turk stalked to his coffin with the dead weight, laid the man down on his side inside of the box, grabbed the lid, climbed in himself, sealing them in darkness, while stretching out next to Sephiroth, and finally put his arm around the slim waist.  He could vaguely see the other man by the soft red glow of his eyes.  He could barely make out the features of the man's face.  He released Sephiroth's waist and reached up to caress the man's cheek once more.

"Are you really hers...  Could..."  He couldn't bring the rest to his lips.

 


End file.
